


The Angel of Death and Her Many Visages

by iwritewordsandthatsyourproblem



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: EDIT: it appears this may become ExR, Hospital Waiting Rooms Suck, I swear, I swear this isn’t about Enj dying, If it is I’ll add it to relationships, Les Amis - Freeform, Les Miserables - Freeform, Mention of POC Joly, No relationships mentioned I think, Ok let’s see, Rated for Teens and up basically for that as well, So original I know, This is rated for violence because it’s set in the aftermath of a protest gone wrong, Well I guess e has a very strong attachment to R but no romantics are mentioned, the title makes it sound like that but it’s not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28500219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritewordsandthatsyourproblem/pseuds/iwritewordsandthatsyourproblem
Summary: It had become a pasttime, Enjolras realized. A sick way of making his obvious, glaring fate less...glaring?But never, in any of his daydreams or nightmares, had he ever imagined the Angel of Death to look like this.
Kudos: 7





	1. Angel #1: The Doctor

**Author's Note:**

> Ok guys! This is my first fanfic, so be ruthless with criticism(but stay constructive please). Hopefully I’ll be able to post lots more fics! I have lots written down, but it’s hard to transfer them from notebook to website(lol).  
> Slight TW: mentions of R being beaten.  
> Enjoy!

It had become a pasttime, Enjolras realized. A sick way of making his obvious, glaring fate less...glaring? 

Because how else could Enjolras end? The sheer volume of his scrapes with death and injury during protests were shocking, even to him. Rubber bullets from regulating police, real bullets from dissenters(‘dissenters’ was a kind word-racists, xenophobes, homophobes, any who hated Les Amis’ cause enough to kill one of its members to dispel the threat of its goals becoming reality), accidents with collapsed podiums and faulty parking breaks-the list never seemed to stop. 

So, truly, who could blame Enjolras for guessing how his death would appear to him? When he was young, he had been captivated with Valkyries: shieldmaidens of Odin, sent upon flying steeds to collect the valiant dead from the battlefield to feast eternally in Valhalla. Enjolras didn’t expect an armored warrior as much anymore, but his consciousness did wander: men and women and people in between appearing to him during his dying moments, taking his hand, leading him away from everything and on to the next life. 

But never, in any of his daydreams or nightmares, had he ever imagined the Angel of Death to look like this. 

She was very short, to start. In his dreams, the Angel was always tall. Also, her white lab coat contrasted wildly with the black or scarlet robes Enjolras’ Angels were normally clothed in. Her pen and clipboard stood in for the occasional flaming sword added to the warriors, just for spice. Her gaze held no fewer flames, however. Mixed with her sharp bob and blazing green eyes, Dr. Weinstein stood up to par with almost every angel Enjolras had ever concocted. Except for one, of course...

The click of her heels as she crossed the linoleum floor to the seating area aroused him from his musings. He shook his head discreetly, and glanced around at his friends. Jehan had been, and was still, asleep—laid across a loveseat. Courfeyrac was writing—did that man ever stop writing?--using Combeferre’s back as a table. ‘Ferre himself was stretched out over Courfeyrac’s lap, reading a book. Eponine was on her mobile, most likely texting the Amis that couldn’t make it to the hospital. 

Dr. Weinstein clipped her pen to her clipboard, making an obscenely loud noise(Jehan was startled awake, Combeferre glanced up, Eponine nearly dropped her mobile). Enjolras would have rolled his eyes, had a thick fog of panic not begun to cloud his throat at the look in the doctor’s eyes.

She cleared her throat.

“You are the friends of Misters Joly and Grantaire, correct?”

A general murmur of assent rose from the group. Enjolras’ voice seemed trapped in his throat.

The doctor nodded. Some of the flames left her eyes, until she seemed almost human. Friendly still would have been a stretch. 

“I have some news for you.”

The clipboard was shuffled, heels clicked. No one seemed to breathe. Seconds stretched to minutes to hours to years—would this woman ever speak?

“Mister Joly’s injury does not seem life-threatening. A mere gut wound, the bullet was easy to remove. He is in recovery now. There was a small complication with his surgery, however-it seems he has an infection. We will prescribe antibodies when he wakes up, and currently have him on an IV.”

Bated breaths were released. Some of the fog in Enjolras’ throat cleared, and he smiled thinly, clasping Jehan’s hand. It was trembling, he noticed. 

“However.”

All at once, the steel and flames in Dr. Weinstein’s voice were back, along with the fog. Smiles were extinguished like birthday candles, their memories erased. A ‘however’ spoken by a doctor in a hospital waiting room was as good as an obituary. 

Enjolras felt dizzy—he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—his friends were hurt, he was terrified and tired(they had been sitting in that cold waiting room for half of the night), and now the doctor had just as good as dropped a slur—a medical slur. 

Jehan’s hand squeezed Enjolras’, his other hand on his shoulder, comforting yet rock solid. Enjolras caught Dr. Weinstein’s eye, and she went on: words calculated and clipped, but softer than before-as if wrapping a brick in a paper napkin softens the blow.

“Mister Grantaire is another story entirely.”

Surely hell must be better than this. If the woman spoke any slower, Enjolras would-what would he do? Nothing. He was useless, powerless, voiceless. There was nothing to be done, nothing but to ride the waves of this verbal beating. He shuddered at using the word in his mind. The doctor was still speaking. 

“He is still in the operating room, and we project that he will stay in the Intensive Care Unit for a while after that. You said that you found him, after the protest?”

The last few words were directed at Eponine. She nodded, pale-faced. The Angel of Death nodded in some manner of arcane reply, and kept speaking. 

“He was very obviously beaten--with a blunt object, although he was rather cut up as well. He has internal bleeding, as well as several broken bones and deep cuts, and--“

The hall behind the doctor rustled with movement, and another white-coated Angel emerged. They were tall, and ginger. They approached Dr. Weinstein, and, with naught but a curt nod in recognition to the agonized waiters, whispered in her ear. 

The doctor’s face grew stormy. She consulted her clipboard, and then whispered to the second Angel. Although Enjolras strained to hear, he could not catch their reply. It was a long one, and the original Angel’s face darkened exponentially as it was delivered. When finally the nurse finished their briefing, turned on their heels, and disappeared back down the hallway in a flash of coats, Dr. Weinstein’s visage was more terrifying than any angel or demon Enjolras could ever have imagined. 

She cleared her throat once more. Jehan squeezed Enjolras’ fingers in a vise-like grip. Out of the corner of his ear, he could hear Coufeyrac’s muffled sob. 

“There have been more complications with Mr. Grantaire’s operation. It seems his internal bleeding has increased, although none of his external wounds were very extreme. It also seems that-“ Papers were shuffled on the clipboard, uselessly, it seemed. “That Mr. Grantaire’s brain has begun swelling. His skull was cracked, and the crack irritated his brain. As of now, it doesn’t seem like he’ll make it. Things like these do change quickly, however, so if you’ll excuse me, I will be heading back.”

The Angel of Death—the Queen of Hell, of Misery, of Despair, clicked across the floor back towards the hallway. Halfway there, she flung a statement over her shoulders-one that should never be spoken aloud, nor even yet imagined. 

“I’m very sorry, children.”


	2. Angel #2: The Nurse

They weren’t children. Not Enjolras, at least. There was no room for weakness in this choking, deathlike silence. 

No one had spoken since Dr. Weinstein left. Courfeyrac was sobbing quietly. Eponine was typing furiously on her mobile. Jehan sat, like a stone, next to him—a shocked, dazed expression on their face. Enjolras gently pressed their hand, but got no response. 

And what was happening inside of the Fearless Leader’s mind? A plan, certainly. A path out of this ambush, out of this massacre. 

Enjolras wished he knew. He wished he could say he felt something: fear, despair, even a sick burst of relief would have been welcome. But there was nothing, just a huge void in his chest—nothing but nothing. A vague need to attend to his friends. An overwhelming wish to know what to do, to have some sort of compass in this wilderness. But he didn’t, so Enjolras did what he did best—not lead, as some would think, or inspire his friends to victory.

He stood, abruptly, shakily, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Expressions changed from mourning to expectation.

Enjolras hated that. Hated the way he could shift emotions just by standing, speaking. He hated how hopeless he felt, how he truly didn’t give a fuck about making his friends happier now. All he needed was—what? A reprieve? A break from life? He needed Grantaire. He needed his best friend to stand up lazily from the chair behind him, stretch his lanky body and then lean against his shoulder, and quietly remind Enjolras that, truly, he could take breaks. Nothing mattered so much that he should risk life and limb and the lives of friend and foe—

But he had. And who had taken the beating? Who was dying in the operating room? Not the right person, that was for sure. 

Dimly, he heard Eponine ask if he was alright-‘you’re not looking too good, E, do you need anything?’ He shook his head, opened his mouth as of to speak. 

And, then, when it really mattered, Enjolras left. 

-POV SWITCH: JOLY-

The light was fuzzy, and Joly’s stomach hurt. He wondered vaguely if he was sick, and, if so, what had happened with the rally?

He opened his eyes(they seemed to be stuck—as if he had been sleeping for a long time), slowly. He was lying in a strange white room, lined with charts and an old television. The blinds to the window were open, revealing the night sky, and a tall street or building light outside. 

‘That would explain the light,’ he thought, some of the haze clearing from his mind. The room seemed to be a hospital room, or the like. Was he really so sick that he had to be put in the hospital? He didn’t feel sick, despite this damned pain in his stomach.

Joly maneuvered his hand up to his chest, ignoring the ache, and lifted his covers gingerly. This investigation revealed a rather large bandage around his midriff.

Memories of the past 24 hours came rushing back, and Joly’s hand thudded back against the bed. He had gone to the protest, and had been standing with Eponine when it had started raining. She had laughed boisterously about not being effected, when a man had approached them. He had demanded that Joly ‘go back to where he came from’ even though he had been born and raised within Paris’ borders. Although he had protested to let it be, Eponine had argued with the man, who had then pulled a gun—Joly winced at the memory of the man’s face as he had hefted it: such a thing of savagery and hate. Everything was a blur after that...

The door to the room clicked open loudly, making Joly jump. A kind looking nurse walked in, noticed that he was awake, and smiled widely. He approached the end of the bed and picked up a clipboard, consulting it before addressing Joly.

“Good evening, Mr. Joly! I’m glad to see that you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Joly blinked. The nurse’s voice was very loud and made his head pound, but he responded anyway.

“I’m doing better, I guess. What happened to me? Where are my friends?”

The nurse nodded, and sat down on the chair next to Joly’s bed. 

“It seems that the rally went a bit south after it started raining. Your friend Eponine said that you jumped in front of the bullet when the man—he’s been arrested, by the way—shot his gun. She’s fine, as are most of your other friends. They’re in the waiting room, if you’d like to see them.”

Joly nodded, but a small doubt gnawed at the back of his mind. 

“You said most of my friends. What are you leaving out?”

The nurse-his name tag identified him as Jacob—winced. The doubt grew into a monster, and his breath hitched in his chest. Someone else had been hurt. It was possible someone was—

“Your friend Mr. Grantaire was injured rather severely. He was beaten, we still don’t know who did it. Police were checking security cameras, last I checked. He is still in the operating room.”

“Will he...will he be alright?”

Joly hated how small his voice sounded as he said that. Grantaire was an incredible friend and person, although he himself would say otherwise. He had saved them all multiple times, in more ways than one—and what had they done for him? They had left him at the rally(he had separated from the group to greet a friend, and they hadn’t seen him until...Joly hadn’t thought of him until now. He hated himself for it), left him to be attacked, to be hurt. 

Jacob cleared his throat. His face was blank, schooled into flatness. 

“He’s...we truly don’t know. We won’t know for a while yet. I’m sorry. May I let your friends come see you?”

Joly thought he nodded. The world was a fog, penetrated only by the metallic click of the door as Jacob left. The doctors didn’t know if Grantaire would live. He could die under the knife, he could be dying right now. And there was nothing anyone could do. Nothing. 

He vaguely wondered how Enjolras was handling the news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Chapter 2 done! This was largely written just now, at the urging of my friends(I send them stuff and all they reply is ‘WRITE MORE NOW’ so I do).  
> Chapter 3 coming soon! To say the least, Enjolras is not handling the news well ;))
> 
> Love!


	3. Angel #3: The Poet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the long wait! Lots of stuff has been going on, and I have several other fics on my docket too. Thanks for reading, here ya go!

It had rained and stopped since Les Amis—or part of it, anyway, had rushed into the emergency room, hefting an unconscious Joly and a moaning Grantaire. Joly had diagnosed himself instantly, and promised he’d be fine before he passed out, and Enjolras had believed him. But when Grantaire muttered that he’d be fine, to just take him home, before pushing helping hands away and collapsing, Enjolras’ chest had constricted. And when they had gotten into the hospital, and he had been taken away on a gurney—Eponine was been holding his hand, and he had begged her not to let him go, and held on so tightly, until the doctors had injected him with something and his hand dropped so fast. It was as if he had just given up. Had he?

Enjolras shoved his hands into his pockets, blew hair out of his face, and walked faster. He was practically sprinting anyway, but the lights of the city were all too bright and jarring after the soothing dim of the waiting room: headlights screamed, traffic signs beeped, and streetlights hummed a cacophony of white and green and confusion. 

He hated himself for running. He really did, and his phone had been buzzing almost nonstop since he had crashed out the sliding doors, practically gasping for air. He hadn’t answered them, and after the fifth call he angrily shut his phone down. If he ended up dead in some alley tonight, he’d deserve it. All Enjolras had ever done was put his friends—no, his family—into constant danger with his delusions of grandeur. This was all it’s ever gotten him—he hadn’t known that when he joined the real world, all bright-eyed and wanting to make a difference. Enjolras scoffed at the memory of his younger self. All fire and flames and passion. He had had so much to prove. Now he had lost his best friend. 

Enjolras paused for a traffic light, and stopped to look around for the first time since he’d plunged headfirst into the night. He was in a familiar neighborhood, but he couldn’t think of the name. He only recognized it because of the graffiti on the wall—a stylized version of the word ‘DEAD!’. Grantaire had pointed out the artist’s lovely use of shadow contrast earlier when—oh.

Unwittingly, Enjolras had walked to Grantaire’s apartment. 

He could see the building from here—shrubs out front, still hung with plastic beads from some celebration. He hadn’t been much, R usually came to Les Amis rather then the other way around. He had a key, though. Enjolras wasn’t sure why, exactly, but he definitely had a key. He juggled his key ring around in his pocket until he gripped the familiar grooves of the dollar-store print. It was decorated with a sharpied-on letter R, almost rubbed off from clinking against the others, not use. The few times he had utilized that key, however, were memorable. Enjolras considered them as he inched closer to the building.

It had been Christmas, two years ago. It wasn’t as if Enjolras didn’t have anywhere else to go—his parents had wanted to see him, but he hadn’t wanted to face them just yet. He had visited the Musain, the library, and a different bar down the street. All of these events occurred in one night, in that order, so, to say the least, Enjolras hadn’t been in the best of headspaces when Grantaire found him. 

He didn’t remember much after that. He had gone to R’s apartment and spent the next two days before submitting to his parents’ will and visiting them in London. They had been an unremarkable two days, filled with cups of water, and cups of paint water, and the important distinction between the two. In the end, it had been agreed that paint water would be put in clear glasses, and other beverages in opaque ones. Beyond that everything was a blur but that stupid jacket Grantaire would wear to paint. It had been so covered in paint it was barely fabric anymore, and he wouldn’t let Enjolras wash it. 

“Stupid artists and their stupid aesthetics,” Enjolras muttered, withdrawing partially from his daydream. As he did so, however, he noticed an odd fact: Enjolras was not inside anymore. He seemed to be in a stairwell, going up. He shrugged, hoped it was the stairwell in Grantaire’s building, and kept climbing. 

The second time he had visited R was possibly the more memorable of the handful. It had been 2 am, Enjolras had been lonely and feeling a bit sick—of the world, as well as feverish. He had wandered around until he hit the building, entered the apartment. It had been devoid of Grantaire. Enjolras had been puzzled, but, seeing the door to the stairs was open, continued onto the roof. 

The roof had not been devoid of Grantaire—quite the opposite, actually. From the second Enjolras had opened the door, he had known his quarry was found. R had been sitting on a barstool in front of an easel, countless mediums of paint strewn around on the concrete. It had taken awhile for Enjolras’ presence to be noticed, as the music pumping out of Grantaire’s headphones had been so loud that Enjolras had identified it, and indeed been humming along to the lyrics, within four seconds of coming off the last step(it had been Conan Gray. His fevered mind had latched onto that almost more than anything). 

Enjolras couldn’t remember what Grantaire had been painting, or how Grantaire had reacted to having a tall blonde stalker for several seconds. He did remember, however, sitting, wrapped in a blanket on the couch as Grantaire phoned Joly. He had been talking rather quietly, but he had raised his voice once(something about ‘39.5 degree fever, Jolllly, he should be in a hospital! Not on my couch!). This inflection of noise had assailed Enjolras’ already tender head so much he had cried out—R had hung up the phone with a terse ‘just come over’, turned off all the lights in the apartment, and made tea. 

The next thing he remembered, he had been in his own apartment, all alone. 

When Enjolras blinked awake again, he thought he was reliving a dream. The rooftop looked almost exactly like it had that summer night—although now it wasn’t adorned by its artist. 

The easel was still set up, a canvas attached. A roughly cut, thin circle of plywood sat on the stool, covered in blobs of paint. They looked barely dry. Enjolras winced at the thought of Grantaire finishing up a painting segment early this morning, certain he would be back to work on it by now. 

Enjolras fished his mobile out of his back pocket, and powered it back on. 

Julien Enjolras, get your ass back in this waiting room I swear to god—  
-Ep, 00:36 am, 5.22.21

Enj where the hell are you  
-Ferrrrrrre, 00:35 am, 5.22.21

Enjolras please come back?? We’re worried  
-Jehan🌺🌺, 00:35 am, 5.22.21

2 Missed Calls from Ep

Missed Call from Courf🐸

3 Missed Calls from Ferrrrrrre

Enjolras ignored the notifications with a swipe of his finger and turned on his flashlight, navigating across the dark roof by the thin illumination. He reached the stool and gently set aside the plywood, but not before accidentally smearing his finger into a blob of green paint. 

He cursed. In the light of his mobile, the paint looked lovely—but he knew it would be a beast to remove. He wondered what Grantaire would have used it for.

Sitting on the stool, Enjolras marveled briefly at the view of the city. Despite all of its shortcomings, Paris really was beautiful from above. The red and blue of building lights mirrored the stars, barely visible above the skyline. Cars traveled over bridges, each a tiny dot of white. Grantaire had picked a perfect spot to sit. He moved his attention to the canvas sitting on the easel in front of him, albeit reluctantly. It seemed holy, not to be touched. It was beautiful, though.

It featured Jehan, and was quite a contrast to the other paintings or photographs generally taken of the poet. This portrait focused more on the little-seen wrath of Jehan—quite a terrible thing.

Jehan sat, on a simple wooden chair, in a darkened room. The only light in the painting came from a piece of paper lit aflame, clutched tightly in their right hand. The light of the fire danced harshly on Jehan’s face, illuminating quiet, terrifying fury. The painting was already signed and dated at the bottom. 5/21/21.

Enjolras stood up from the stool, casting his eyes around the roof. There was a stack of canvases in the corner. Before walking over, he lifted the painting of Jehan off the easel, setting it on the concrete so softly it didn’t make a sound. After retrieving a canvas, Enjolras scrounged about for a paintbrush(he counted at least 20 lying about, but didn’t want to settle), lugged the rain barrel over to the stool, picked up the plywood, and began to paint, feeling calmer than he had all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes added post-mortem:  
> -This wasn’t supposed to be an ExR fic, I swear! Buttt I was listening to Troye Sivan when I wrote the roof scene so it may end up being one.  
> -About Chapter 2: I know that gut wounds are bad, I’m sorry—I just don’t want to go back and edit.  
> -I don’t know any streets/areas in Paris where students like R would live, if you know any please comment them!  
> -Working on Chapter 4!! At the most it’ll be like 3 weeks to get it out, if it’s more please yell at me in the comments  
> -Yes I referenced Burn(Hamilton, 2016) for my painting I will not apologize  
> Love you guys! <3<3<3


End file.
